


Old World Symphony

by RebelsAdvocate



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Classical Music, Competition, Composers AU, Contest, Drama, Historical, Humor, Music, Romance, Sass, Scandal, composers, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-06 07:08:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13406055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebelsAdvocate/pseuds/RebelsAdvocate
Summary: Vienna, 1780s. Roderich, rising musician in a world of art and chaos, hungers to show prowess in a composition contest—until he has the misfortune of meeting his opponents. A crossdressing duet, a revolutionary and a runaway, an ex-military flautist, lovebirds senza linguistics, and a Mass in B Minor that isn’t what it seems all come together to make the era a little less classic. [Composers AU, basically]





	1. 1 - Roderich enters the hall

**Author's Note:**

> No, I am not abandoning my other stories. I’ve just had so much of this one prewritten from so many months (almost a year now!) past and thought I may as well post it already. I keep getting into it, then getting back out. Therefore, updates on this will probs be slow and will not affect/be unaffected by other stuff. I just need an escape to write a horribly dramatic pseudo-romance (not kidding; it’s horrible).
> 
> (Note: Abandon all hope for complete historical, geographical, musical and linguistic accuracy when ye enter here. I’m interested and desperately trying, though, so if you’re a friendly 18th century Viennese musician and can help me out, that’d be great.)

The new concert hall loomed above Roderich Edelstein, an unwavering silhouette against the oncoming storm. Climbing the stone steps took more stamina from him than he dared let the coach driver see, but reaching the top instilled in him a dignified air of importance. He waved a dismissive white-gloved hand in the general direction of the carriage and then turned to face the towering doors, which were guarded by steep, neoclassical pillars. Here Roderich felt powerful. Here, Roderich felt like he belonged. 

 

A watchman was at the door, and his eyes widened as Roderich entered with violin case in hand. A drop of rain fell, kissing the spot Roderich’s polished leather shoe had been moments before. Here was a man of purpose, the servant thought. Would he prove dedicated enough to win?

 

All winning thoughts in Roderich’s own head glided out the window as he beheld the inside of the new hall. It was not open to the public yet, and for good measure, for if the public saw  _ this _ , the public would never want to spend another day without its glory always in their sight, and the hall’s true purpose as a building to occupy the arts would be lost. Roderich felt smug that he was able to steal this glimpse before the grand opening. But of course, he would be involved in that, as well.

 

The man directed him to the practice alcoves, out of the way of the main auditorium. The room was still massive, pianos and cellos lining the walls, sconces hanging in orderly yet artistic fashion. Thunder rumbled as he sat and opened his violin case, feeling like a god. 

 

After a few minutes of tuning and running through particularly difficult measures, Roderich had gained a small crowd. He did not know who the men were, in their cravats and coats, but he didn’t ask. If scouts and spies wanted to hear the prosperous young musician from Vienna, let them come. Roderich wanted—needed—everyone in this room to hear him play. He was without a doubt that they would be impressed. The more ears, the better represented was his passion; the better showcased was his talent.

 

He had arrived an hour before the judges, but still needed to meet and practice with his piano accompanist. Seeing as the fellow had not arrived yet, Roderich passed the time by going over the piano part himself. A few excited whispers floated through the crowd.

 

With every distant rumble of thunder, Roderich grew increasingly impatient and apprehensive. The judges would arrive any minute now, and there was still no one to play the piano. He tuned his violin once more, and then tuned it again. With every passing footstep, Roderich looked up.

 

Finally, three men stepped into the alcove. “Roderich Edelstein?” asked one. “Your time has come.”

 

“Yes,” Roderich gratefully responded. “My judges, I presume? A pleasure to meet you. Which one of you is the accompanist? We need to have a few words before I begin.”

 

The men shared glances. “Sorry, sir,” said one. “None of us are he. Is your accompanist late? Have you practiced with him before?”

 

Roderich’s jaw tightened. “I—I have, sir,” he lied. “I just don’t know where he’s gone.” Off to a wonderful start.

 

He only got a grunt in response as the judges took to their table. More whispers drifted up from the small audience. 

 

“Would you like me to begin without him?” Roderich asked, tentatively. It was still all about impression. “I wouldn’t want to make you wait.”

 

“‘S fine,” one judge muttered. He glanced down at his papers, and then looked back up. “Say, you’re the gentleman who played that duet in Munich last year, correct? You’re just a solo act now?”

 

Roderich clenched the neck of his instrument a little tighter. “I am.” And  _ I’ll have to be for this too, if my accompanist doesn’t arrive soon…  _

 

A loud clap of thunder shook the ground, and another man stumbled into the room. Faces turned. The man was short, his wig-less head long and blond and soaked with rainwater. He carried a small briefcase, also soaked, about his person. His green eyes were wide and sharp. His slight accent was, as well. “I’m the accompanist for…Roderich Edelstein? I apologize for my tardiness.”

 

Roderich resisted the urge to put his hands on his hips and scold the man. “Yes, that’s  _ me _ ,” he emphasized, making his glare evident. “You  _ are  _ late.” 

 

“I  _ apologize _ ,” repeated the man. He extracted water-stained sheet music from his case and flashed it to Roderich. “This is the piece, correct?”

 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Roderich growled. 

 

“Fine. My name is Vash Zwingli. Nice...to meet you.”

 

The judges looked quizzical as Roderich fumed, but everything would only get worse. His accompanist, without even offering a polite handshake, strode over and sat down. At the  _ harpsichord _ . 

 

Roderich almost had a heart attack. “What are you  _ doing _ ?” He hissed to Zwingli, clutching his bow like it was a weapon. 

 

The man looked back at Roderich, assaulted. “My job?” He brushed water droplets from his hair and looked over the music.

 

Roderich kept his voice low but full of emotion for the sake of everyone in the room. “I wanted a  _ pianist _ , not a— _ oh _ ! No one plays the harpsichord anymore, you fool! Why are you doing this to me?”

 

“Is there a problem?” one judge asked. 

 

Zwingli didn’t look any sorry at all when he said, “I’m sorry. You’re getting a harpsichordist.”

 

Roderich scoffed. Laughed a little. This was not happening. This was not happening. “Can you even  _ play _ ?”

 

The man, with all the nerve he had, scoffed  _ back _ . “Can  _ you _ ?”

 

“Are we ready to begin?” the judge beckoned.

 

Roderich wheeled back to face his audience. “Yes, my apologies.”  _ No! Not in any way at all! We haven’t practiced, I need a pianist, this man is outrageous! _

 

“Ready when you are,” Zwingli asserted from his seat at the throne of stupidity, the wooden harpsichord bench. His fingers were poised over the keys.

 

Roderich huffed, bringing the violin to his chin. When this was over, he would kill the stupid  _ accompanist  _ for ruining his performance and his career. He would tear him to pieces.

 

Zwingli tried to begin counting off, but Roderich responded furiously with a beat of his own. “One, _ two _ , ready,  _ and _ …”

 

Fingers flew over fingerboards, and too many strings were plucked for Roderich’s liking. At least they stayed on tempo. With every note the harpsichordist plucked out, Roderich winced. This was a graceful melody, not a metallic  _ ballad.  _ He kept his violin dainty, as if it were made of porcelain, and then let his bow pull notes from strings like flowers from a garden. Zwingli’s instrument boomed in the background like a printing press or a weaving loom, a clunky machine. Roderich was surprised he made it through the concerto excerpt without exploding in anger. 

 

The judges would judge him on this. They would decide, based on these notes, these sounds, if Roderich was a musician talented enough to continue, to make history. If he was, Roderich would be allowed into the actual competition—another barrier to prove himself. He would compose a piece demonstrating not only his own greatness, but the greatness deserved by all musicians, of all music in general. And if Roderich’s composition was greater than all the others, it would be performed for the public at the opening of this very concert hall. But that was the catch:  _ anyone _ was allowed into the composition contest. Freedom, equality, blasphemy—the amateurs would be sifted out of the pile in this audition period. Amateurs; commoners who showed up like Vash Zwingli. If Roderich’s superior music was heard by everyone at the opening, and  _ liked _ , it could mean his future. It could mean the difference between a sad life alone scribbling down spare notes beside smoldering fires, squandering his money, and a life in the courts of kings and queens, never worrying again where the next meal was coming from. He could have everything he needed, and even have free time to pursue everything he wanted. Everything he enjoyed.

 

In the end, Roderich received plenty applause and many impressed nods from the concerto. The judges scribbled furiously on their papers; Roderich’s stomach turned. He bowed, fixed his glasses, and packed his instrument away. Zwingli waited at his seat.

 

Finally, the middle judge looked up. “Thank you, Herr Edelstein. That was a very fine piece you played. Return tomorrow morning, and the list will be posted in the main hall.”

 

“Of course,” Roderich responded. He was having trouble keeping his voice calm. He did not deserve the compliment, and wished for everything he could show the crowd what he was  _ really  _ capable of sounding like. “Thank you very much.” 

 

He shot one last seething glare at Zwingli, reclining too leisurely and too dutifully on the stupid harpsichord seat for his liking. A terrible clap of thunder broke overhead. Roderich lifted his chin, straightened his jabot, and marched out of the room. 


	2. Feliciano has a misadventure in the rain

Feliciano Vargas was dreadfully late; he knew that already. And, of course, falling down the steps only added to his problems.

He only had time to squeal as the short, yet strong man shoved past him in the rain. They had both been racing to the same set of doors, and Feliciano really thought he was winning. Then the man's briefcase swung back and knocked Feliciano in a sensitive spot. He lost his footing on the rain-slick stone stairs and tumbled to his demise, his sheet music catching the howling wind.

The perpetrator of the crime looked back in vain, but it was too late. Feliciano's sprawling body crashed into the solid body of another. They both tipped on the edge of their step, but caught their balance at the last second. Feliciano relinquished hold on the last pages of his sheet music to save his own life. When he was pulled upright again, he found himself staring into eyes as stormy and blue as the sky.

"Are you alright?" the man asked in a gruff but polite voice.

Feliciano could only squeak out, "Yesthankyou?"  _I'm late, I'm late, someone's gonna kick my ass and then I'm never gonna win!_

The handsome man let go of Feliciano, wiping a sheen of rainwater from his hat brim. "Do—do you need help with your music, or…"

"Sorry!" Feliciano insisted on instinct. "I mean, um…no thank you…" He couldn't even see where his papers had flown off to, and the judges wouldn't like to see them splattered with rain. Now his only hope was that the accompanist had remembered their music and would share.

Feliciano didn't wait for the man, his savior, to respond. He hurried back up the steps, more careful this time, but no slower. The man stared after him in awe and confusion.

Everything just kept getting worse. Feliciano felt trapped in an endless spiral down the drain. He was bruised, his music was gone forever, and rainwater had soaked well into his hair and tights. And now, once  _finally_ inside this beautiful new concert hall, he was lost.

 _I may as well count myself out of everything_ he thought, dejectedly, as he tried in vain to fix himself. With no better plan or idea, Feliciano began to wander the halls.

The grandiose architecture reminded him a little of the ancient ruins scattered throughout his own home country, but in Austria it was less bold and more...refined, as if the building knew it was better than everything else around it, but didn't want to admit it. Feliciano ran a hand along the hall, admiring the sculpted golden sconces and wondering who had painted the marvelous ceiling. Everything was huge and angled to produce maximum sound quality. The massive candelabras in the main hall were unlit, throwing a ghostly shade throughout the room, and Feliciano trembled imagining how his music might have filled this place. He had played and sang his way all the way from Italy to get here, and it hurt his heart to stand meters from the stage but know he world never set foot upon it.

"Signore Feliciano Vargas?" called a voice from the main hallway. Time had passed. Feliciano hadn't realized.

Feliciano jumped, turning around quickly. "That's me! I am Feliciano Vargas! I am also lost!"

The servant stepped aside, gesturing with his arm. "This way, please. You are performing next."

Hope soared through Feliciano's veins once more. "Ah, yes!" He dashed out to the hallway so fast he ran right into a man who was passing by, a sparkly, mean-looking fancy man carrying a violin case. Feliciano almost fell down again.

" _Excuse me_ ," the man said, shoving his way angrily past.

Feliciano shook his head, dazed. His "Sorry," was much quieter. He and the butler recovered and found their way to the audition room, a practice alcove off the main hall. The first thing Feliciano saw when he entered was the large crowd of people, and then the many shiny instruments, including a harpsichord, manned by a familiar-looking blond guy who looked almost as angry as the violinist who had just run Feliciano down. Feliciano gulped. He sure hoped the accompanist had brought music.

"Sorry for the wait, signore," said one of the judges, seated at a table in the front. "Our last performance was delayed. You may begin when you are ready."

Feliciano gave the judge a bright smile. "I don't mind at all!" Then, quickly, he ducked his head at the harpsichord accompanist. "So, what am I singing?"

The man looked quite bewildered. He frustratedly shook his fingers out over the layered keyboard. "You're kidding, right?"

Feliciano's smile turned sad. "I really, really hope you have your music, because when you pushed me down the stairs, I lost mine."

The harpsichordist looked appalled and assaulted. "And I'm Vash Zwingli. Nice to meet you, too." He showed Feliciano that he did indeed have the music. Only there was yet  _another_ problem. Vash's music only had the  _music_. It did not have the words.

If Feliciano were his brother, he would have screamed, cursed Vash out, and chucked the music stand at the snickering spectator in the back row. But he was not his brother. He was Feliciano, and so he pleasantly announced himself to the judges, nodded at Vash to begin, and prayed to God these Austrians didn't speak Italian.

He got through the first and second verses fine, since he had memorized them better in practice. The melody he could see over Vash's head, the dusty harpsichord keeping them together in time well considering they hadn't practiced together before. But by the third verse, Feliciano was stumbling. The song was a bit repetitive, and it was hard to remember which words went where.

" _Mia amoooree, mia amooooore!_   _Amo_ "—Feliciano panicked—" _cantare! Amo cantaaare!_   _Questa una canzone! Questa una canzone grande!_ " He detected no confused faces from the judges, though Vash's shoulders were shaking a little. That could have just been from the cold, though; they were both still wet. Feliciano sailed over another few easy lines, making sure to roll his Rs like a true romantic, and then stumbled again. " _Ho fame, oggi è sabato, voglio cibo!_ " Vash's shoulders were  _really_ shaking when Feliciano finished the whole thing off; " _Mi piacciono belle donne e uomini forti!_ "

There was applause all around. The judges splattered ink as they wrote. Vash, for some peculiar reason, had to immediately get up and leave the room. Feliciano hoped he was alright.

"You're a tenor, hm, signore?" the judge mumbled as he wrote. "Those were some impressively high notes. Alright. Good performance. Tomorrow morning we announce results."

Feliciano nodded fervently. "Thank you! Thank you. I'll be…I will come! Yes. Good day."

He left the hall feeling only slightly better than when he had arrived.


	3. Elizabeta and Felicks take on judgement

Elizabeta Héderváry was bored as hell. The long, weary hours of traveling, the delays, the vast lands of the Habsburg monarchy making her nauseous; all of it for  _him_. She took one last look at the parchment brochure spread out on the parlor table, then stood up in determination. If she took this gamble, there was a chance, but still she chastised herself for it. The question presented itself—did  _she_ want to do this?

The conflict in her wager was too much for this stuffy old stayhouse to contain. Her butt ached from sitting in the parlor for too long. She knew the servant girl had been eyeing her from the kitchens, but when Elizabeta turned, clutching the parchment a little too tightly, the child turned her sweet green eyes away and pretended to be fixing the bow in her hair. Elizabeta decided she didn't mind. What harm could such a young person do? She turned, lifted her skirts, and charged up the stairs.

Elizabeta breezed into the room at the end of the hall. "Hey, so, Felicks, there's this thing…"

A shriek.

Elizabeta threw her hand in front of her eyes. "God,  _Felicks_!" She swiveled out and slammed the door. She marched to the end of the hall, paused, then marched back. She opened the door a sliver. " _God_ , I just needed to  _ask_  you—"

" _What_?!" A shuffling, then a monstrous  _thud_. "It's  _fine_ , I totally  _swear_!" A pained gasp.

Elizabeta brought her glove over her mouth to stifle her laughter. She opened the door, graciously stepping in. "If I  _knew_ you were going to be  _stealing my clothes again_ …"

Felicks Łukasiewicz swiveled to face her, adjusting the dress around his hips. His arms were crossed rigidly over the corset, which didn't quite fit his chest. He was also wearing a frown, which turned lopsided and then melted into a snide grin, ready to snap back. "Well, hey, it's not like  _you_  never steal  _my_ clothes!" He fluffed out the skirt daintily, and then tried to casually fling himself onto the bed. Immediately, they winced at the same time, and he cursed. "Okay, bad idea."

She did her best to ignore all of this, but the smile on her face reigned. "Um. So. You know that new concert hall opening nearby?"

A profound pause. "Uhhh, no?"

She jumped into explanation. "Well, there's a music competition being held there, you see. Those who make auditions enter the contest. If you win the contest, your winning piece is performed during the grand opening to the public! I was thinking—"

Felicks had been tapping his face thoughtfully before he interrupted. "Wait. Is this about…like...you know?"

Elizabeta pretended she didn't know what he meant.  _How did he know?_ She continued on, clutching at the folds of her own dress anxiously. "If you make the auditions, you have to compose a type of musical work.  _Any_ type. The judges decide if it's good enough, and you can work with at least one other person. Teams. I was thinking—"

He interrupted again, rolling off his bed and approaching the mirror. "Sure, sure, yea. When are auditions?" he tossed offhandedly over his shoulder, fiddling with his sleeves.

She clenched her own skirt fabric into her fists. "Today. In half in hour."

Felicks wheeled around, his bare foot stomping loudly on the creaky stayhouse floorboards. "Today in half an hour?! Well, shit, let's do it!"

Elizabeta sighed, smiling. She hadn't expected this conversation to unfold as it had, but it was no matter. Granted, she hadn't expected this whole month to unfold as it had. "Great! But—first you have to take that off!"

* * *

"A duet piano act," the judge on the right clarified, clasping his gloves together. "How...interesting. New. We still have room for entry, but only as long as you have your papers. Do you have them?"

"Yes!" Elizabeta, drops of rain still clinging to her hat, approached the stand and graciously slid over some forms she had scribbled out in the two-minute period between the last performer's audition and theirs. The small audience watched curiously. A man seated in the back was smiling, his lips curled humorously around the pipe sticking from the side of his mouth. Elizabeta shivered and hurried back to her place.

The middle judge was examining the papers while everyone else examined the rain-splattered travelers. "Your names are Elizabeta Héd—Hédervá"—he squinted, and then botched her name horribly—" _Héderváry_ , and F-Felicks Ł—Łukasie—Łukasie _what_?" The judge gave up and preened at them. "Are these even real names?"

"Um, yes?" Elizabeta answered, glancing at Felicks. He bit his lip, frowning. The confidence from earlier had been washed away with the rain now that they were actually facing their impossible.

The third judge piped up. "So, tell me. The two of you are not… _married_ …or, from around here…"

Some stifled laughs from the audience.

After a short gasp, Felicks was finally talking. The jab brought out his attitude. "Oh, haha! Honey, no  _way_! We just play piano! This chick Liz is top of her game—did you go to the thing in Bavaria last year? Maybe you couldn't afford it; I've seen that exact wig you're wearing on the heads of many a country farmer, so I just guessed. But anyway, that was  _her_  with  _Roderich Edelstein._ Yep. You heard me.  _Roderich Edelstein_." He brought his voice to a sassy stage whisper. "And she's way out of his league, too!"

"Felicks, please!" Elizabeta laughed as the judges turned to each other quizzically. "It's not like  _your_  last performance didn't get an hour-long standing ovation in Warsaw or anything, and you aren't currently supposed to be on  _grand embassy_ across the continent!"

They grinned at each other, only a little sheepishly.

The judge on the right mumbled something under his breath, then waved at the two. "Fine, fine. Carry on. We will see how you perform."

"They're frauds," the judge on the left hissed.

For the upmost time, Elizabeta wished she had been born a male. She and Felicks sat down together at the room's only piano, and she spread out her water-flushed skirt across the creaky wooden bench.

" _Wait, w-what are we, like, even playing_?" Felicks whispered at her as he carefully removed his slippery gloves.

Elizabeta smiled brightly at her friend. She hadn't even remembered to choose a song for them. Quickly, she gave the name of a duet she knew they had played together before, and after exchanging reassuring smiles, they counted off silently together.

It was a blur. The audience was in awe at their synchronicity, and the short man who had previously been reclining at the harpsichord bench got up and left the room. Whenever one of them stumbled, the other was right there with the cue note. Their hands crossed over and under each other multiple times, dancing across the entire length of the keyboard. The man with the pipe was no longer eyeing them cheekily.

Elizabeta felt her heart swell with pride. Let Roderich see her now. Let him see how she impressed his fellow Viennese, how the only sound in the room was the music she and Felicks created. She dared glance over at Felicks; his face was terse, scrunched up in either concentration or anger. Probably both. She had been his friend for years, and understood the feeling of only being accepted when she had something to show for herself; impressing the determinately unimpressed was exhausting. And so they swayed together with the melody, climbing up the keyboard until the last loud chord was hammered out, and the audience burst into applause.

Elizabeta and Felicks leapt to their feet, Elizabeta tripping on her skirt a little. They hadn't rehearsed it, but it had been a near perfect performance. Feeling proud, Elizabeta seized Felicks's hand and swung them down, bowing at the judges with bravado.

This made the three men clear their throats, uncomfortably. Maybe not a good move. Felicks gave a tentative wave, slowly backing up so Elizabeta's soggy skirt blocked his retreat. Seeing the judges look so stern, she decided to waste no time following him. She didn't care what the audience would say; it had been satisfying enough just to be here. She and Felicks fled the room.


End file.
